
Class 

Book 

Copyright]^"—- 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 



THE POETS' ENCHIRIDION 

ADDRESS TO UVEDALE PRICE 

AN INVOCATION TO SLEEP 

CATARINA TO CAMOENS 



-"THE 
POETS' ENCHIRIDION 

A HITHERTO UNPUBLISHED POEM 
WITH AN INEDITED 

ADDRESS TO UVEDALE PRICE 

ON HIS EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY 
AN EARLY 

INVOCATION TO SLEEP 

AND A PRELIMINARY DRAFT OF 
THE RENOWNED POEM 

CATARINA TO CAMOENS 

BY 

ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT 

(AFTERWARDS MRS. BROWNING) 




PRINTED EXCLUSIVELY FOR MEMBERS OF 

THE BIBLIOPHILE SOCIETY 

BOSTON. MASSACHUSETTS 

MCMXIV 



^Wn "^ 






COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY 
THE BIBLIOPHILE SOCIETY 



•©CI.A87G349^' 



NOTE 

These characteristic and remarkably interest- 
ing poems are presented in this manner to afford 
the members of The BibUophile Society a fore- 
taste of the unusual literary treat that awaits 
them in the two larger volumes of unpublished 
Browning MSS. now in course of preparation. 

The distinguished English editor, who will have 
full editorial charge of the work, writes : — 

" 'The Poets' Enchiridion' is the author's own 
title. The Uvedale Price Address is connected 
with the genesis of the 'Enchiridion.' The sweet 
little 'Invocation' was written in or before her 
early teens; and the 'Catarina to Camoens' is a 
lovely sketch of the poet's mature period. When 
these pieces are absorbed into the larger work 
(volume II) there will be some very interesting 
things to tell about them. 

"As to the poet's 'Autobiography,' I hope you 
will be able to possess your soul in patience just 
a little longer." 

Meantime it will suffice to state that the MSS. 
were obtained when the executors of the poet's 

5 



son decided to disperse them publicly. They are 
samples of a large number — of about one 
hundred and fifty unpublished pieces — purchased 
by Mr. Henry H. Harper, and placed at the 
disposal of the Society to print for the members. 
It is one of the most important literary "finds" 
of modern times. 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING: 
NEW DATA 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING: 
NEW DATA 

A CENTENNIAL ADDRESS TO THE BIBLIOPHILE 
SOCIETY SPOKEN ACROSS THE ATLANTIC BY 

H. BUXTON FORMAN 

Just a century ago a tiny, frail maiden of eight 
years, living with her parents and younger brothers 
and sisters in a beautiful and luxurious home at 
Hope End in the county of Hereford, came to the 
serious conviction that she was a poet. Her father 
and mother, far from discountenancing such a 
belief in their eldest-born, rather fostered it in the 
little Elizabeth, Beth, or Ba, as she is variously 
styled in the archives of her now illustrious life. 
From early infancy Elizabeth Barrett Moulton 
Barrett, to give her for once her full baptismal 
name, had been accustomed to shape her budding 
thoughts in verse and in due course to set them 
down on paper. In her sixth year, on beholding 
some carefully indited lines of hers on Virtue, her 
father addressed to her a letter containing a ten 
shilling note, and placed on it the playful super- 
scription, "To the Poet Laureate of Hope End;" 

9 



and when, at the age of eight, in the year 1814, 
little Ba commandeered a quarto volume of blank 
paper, to be the receptacle of transcripts of her 
various compositions, there was no case for sur- 
prise or discouragement of any sort. 

Whether the transcripts were to be made from 
time to time by the little authoress herself or by 
her fond but by no means injudicious mother, 
busied with the duties of maternity (for she bore 
her husband eleven children beside Ba) is a ques- 
tion not yet positively settled; nor is it a very 
important one. It is certain that at a very early 
age the child wrote a surprisingly mature ladylike 
hand, which altered from time to time; and if she 
was the transcriber of 1814, of whose verse and 
prose the copy-book was destined to contain so 
considerable a mass, her hand must have degener- 
ated in tidiness as it developed in character. That 
is by no means unlikely; for, as Browning records 
in the 1887 edition of her works, she was practi- 
cally self-educated, although both a Governess and 
a Tutor took part in her tuition at Hope End. 

What is certain is that this quarto commence- 
ment of recorded authorship began with a carefully 
penned heading in ornamental characters which 
look more like the best work of an infant prodigy 
than the not very strong delineation of a matron. 
The heading is formed of minutely shaded letters 
and reads thus — 

10 



POEMS 

by 

Elizabeth B. Barrett 

The body of the writing shows a somewhat simi- 
lar conception of the caUigraphic art to that shown 
by writing of a sUghtly later date unquestionably 
hers; and, while it looks at least as mature in 
some respects, perhaps more mature, has, per con- 
tra, one or two rather childish characteristics in it: 
hence it remains to settle by extraneous minute 
investigation whose hand it positively is. But one 
thing is beyond all possible question, that the com- 
positions are those of Elizabeth herself, whether 
she or her mother wrote these copies out fairly from 
the child's own written copies — as for instance 
those bestowed on the various members of the 
family at Hope End for whom they were composed. 
That quarto collection of transcripts was in fact a 
sort of limited act of publication; and it is at the 
first centenary of that act that we have now 
arrived, — sixty-eight years after the marriage of 
the still frail Uttle lady, but by then recognized 
great poet, to Robert Browning, and fifty-three 
years after her death and burial at Florence. 

The Bibliophile Society with its sumptuous 
issues of fine contributions to English literature is a 
characteristic growth of that vast prosperity and 

11 



strong intellectual and political progress which the 
democratic child of Hope End and the great 
woman who wrote "Aurora Leigh" and "Casa 
Guidi Windows" was as forward to recognize and 
appreciate as the great nation akin to her own was 
to receive into its bosom the children of her spirit; 
and it is a fitting revenge of time that the Society 
located west of the Atlantic is to give these early 
works and others of still greater interest to the 
light of day. 

It is not to be credited that either she or her 
husband had any dread of the daylight for any 
records they might leave behind them. They had 
ample opportunity for putting out of existence any 
of the vast accumulations of drafts and records 
and unpublished works and letters to them and 
from them; and there is evidence of Browning 
having gone out of his way to gather in much of 
this material after his wife's death, and gone over 
it in some measure before he too passed to his 
place, in Westminster Abbey, and left his son 
as custodian of the archives. That son dying in 
his turn and somewhat before his time, his execu- 
tors have seen fit to scatter over the face of the 
earth this enormous aggregation of documents; 
and The Bibliophile Society has not been back- 
ward in the endeavour to secure what it could for 
issue among its members. 

It is an old tradition of the United States of 
12 



t 



America to be more "up to date" than England 
in respect of the poetry and personaUty of EUza- 
beth Barrett Browning. Indeed long before she 
had consented to take that last august name, and 
was about to allow her own full maiden-name to 
appear for the first time on the title-page of an 
important collection of poems, it was at New York 
that that collection secured priority of appearance. 
It is useless to attempt to persuade The Biblio- 
phile Society that the two volumes called "A 
Drama of Exile and other Poems" (New York, 
1845) did not appear before the two volumes called 
simply "Poems" (London, 1844); for the Ameri- 
can book, identical in substance with the English 
book, only differs from it in typography, in a 
matter of trade custom, and in the Preface. The 
body of the London Preface is practically identical 
with that of New York, varying only in a few 
phrases. But there is a preliminary paragraph in 
the New York Preface almost unknown even to 
bibliographers on either side of the Atlantic, which 
leaves no doubt whatever on the question of prior- 
ity. The paragraph should be grateful to the 
hearts of Americans at this day when the world 
acclaims Mrs. Browning as the greatest of women- 
poets, — some say except Sappho; but who can 
really, with the scanty knowledge we have of her, 
truly fix Sappho's place? At any rate let this 
glorious Englishwoman's utterance stand on record 

13 



in one of The Bibliophile Society's issues in this 
centennial Year of Grace: — 

"My love and admiration have belonged to the 
great American people, as long as I have felt proud 
of being an Englishwoman, and almost as long as 
I have loved poetry itself. But it is only of late 
that I have been admitted to the privilege of per- 
sonal gratitude to Americans, and only to-day 
that I am encouraged to offer to their hands an 
American edition of a new collection of my poems, 
about to be published in my own country. This 
edition precedes the English one by a step, — a 
step eagerly taken, and with a spring in it of pleas- 
ure and pride suspended, however, for a moment, 
that, by a cordial figure I may kiss the soil of 
America, and address my thanks to those sons of 
the soil, who, if strangers and foreigners, are yet 
kinsmen and friends, and who, if never seen, nor 
perhaps to be seen by eyes of mine, have already 
caused them to glisten by words of kindness and 
courtesy." 

Again, when Elizabeth Barrett Barrett had been 
led to the Altar by Robert Browning, and husband 
and wife each published in 1850 a collection of 
Poems in two volumes, the States really took 
more seriously than the mother country did the 

14 



poetess's own denunciation of her early version 
of the Prometheus Bound of iEschylus, and her 
propitiatory offering of an entirely new and 
vigorous translation. The States naturally ab- 
sorbed more eagerly than England did the fervid 
and noble democracy and humanitarianism of 
"Casa Guidi Windows," and the advanced poli- 
tics of "Poems before Congress," published as 
separate volumes in 1851 and 1860. Accord- 
ingly we find New York producing in the 
earlier of those two years a separate volume en- 
titled "Prometheus Bound and other Poems; in- 
cluding Sonnets from the Portuguese, Casa Guidi 
Windows, &c.," and naming the 1860 booklet after 
its first poem, — "Napoleon III in Italy." As to 
"Aurora Leigh" and the "Sonnets from the Por- 
tuguese," it is next to impossible to gauge the vivid, 
the deep, the instantaneous impression created 
in the various regions of the English-speaking 
world by the radiant universality of that spacious 
narrative poem and the exquisite and unique 
tenderness and perfection of those Sonnets, which 
were, sub rosa, her own love-sonnets to Browning. 
But when the beautiful spirit which created by 
years of residence a sacred atmosphere in and about 
Casa Guidi had taken up her freedom from suffer- 
ing, and lay at rest in the English Burial Ground 
at Florence, the States surpassed in mournful re- 
grets even the respectful sorrow of Mrs. Browning's 

15 



own country. Here again, bibliography is a truly 
typical hand-maid to literary appreciation; for it is 
to be observed that while the "Last Poems" of 
Elizabeth Barrett Browning, gathered up and 
edited by her husband, were published in England 
in 1862 with a few lines written by him, the Ameri- 
can edition issued simultaneously with the English, 
contained a different few lines in which Browning 
set forth that the right of publishing the book in 
the United States had been "liberally purchased 
by Mr. James Miller," and that it was hoped there 
would be "no interference with the same." Miller's 
book was one of the "blue and gold" pocket vol- 
umes so popular in the third quarter of last century. 
Like the EngUsh book it was called simply "Last 
Poems by Elizabeth Barrett Browning;" but it was 
graced with a "Memorial" by Theodore Tilton,not 
only sympathetic and charming as an essay, but, 
being quasi-biographical, earlier by a quarter of a 
century or more than any attempt in England to 
publish a Life of Mrs. Browning. On the other 
hand it is to be recorded with regret that Miller 
omitted Browning's beautiful and simple words 
of dedication to the fair city that had given 
hospitable and loving shelter to him and his wife 
for many years and appreciated their work for 
Italy: — 



16 



TO GRATEFUL FLORENCE, 
TO THE MUNICIPALITY, HER REPRESENTATIVE, 
AND TO TOMMASEO, ITS SPOKESMAN, 
MOST GRATEFULLY. 

Browning's long survival of his wife could not 
but restrain English endeavour to celebrate her in 
biographical memoirs. To the end of his life he 
remained passionately in love with her and too 
reverently so as to let the world be at once flooded 
with authoritative documents; but that the masses 
of such documents controlled by him were scrupu- 
lously guarded from perishing is certain; and he 
doubtless contemplated with equanimity the even- 
tual upheaval that would make public just as much 
about his wife's wonderful and flawless life, his own 
relations with her, and all else concerning the 
Brownings, as the world might find a use for. 
While these sacred archives were in the hands of 
the only son of the two poets, he by no means 
denied access to them; and it was perhaps by 
reason of uncontrollable circumstances that his 
executors were left to deal with the formidable col- 
lection distributed under the hammer in the sum- 
mer of 1913. It consisted of vastly more than Sir 
Frederick Kenyon drew upon for his invaluable 
selection from Elizabeth Barrett Browning's Letters 
published in two thick volumes in 1897; nor was 
the material of high interest by any means ex- 

17 



hausted when he followed those volumes up in 1899 
with two more consisting of the letters exchanged 
between the affianced poets during the year pre- 
ceding their marriage. 

The Bibliophile Society will doubtless learn with 
eager anticipation that those youthful efforts in 
the quarto copy-book with others obtained by the 
Society afford a veritable constructive chronicle 
of the child-poet's early life at Hope End and else- 
where. There are about ninety of these composi- 
tions, the acquisition of which was the more 
fortunate from the circumstance, lamented by Sir 
F. Kenyon in his edition of Mrs. Browning's Let- 
ters, that there is little known of those early years 
beyond what in 1843 the poetess imparted to R. H. 
Home in a biographical letter which he ultimately 
published. The great majority of the composi- 
tions is in verse; but a good deal of prose is scat- 
tered among the poems; and it is from the poems 
that we learn most about the Hope End life and 
circle. 

Fortunate as that acquisition was, it is surpassed 
in actual importance by the recovery of a most re- 
markable record of the life of Elizabeth Barrett 
written by herself on her entry into her fifteenth 
year. That record Browning certainly knew, for 
it was found wrapped in paper and marked by him 
with the words "Her own life and character 
to her 15th Year." The fourteen-year-old girl's 

18 



"Glimpses into My Own Life and Literary Char- 
acter" will figure, importantly, in the first volume 
of her posthumous writings which, as I understand, 
the Council hopes to issue this year. How well 
the "Glimpses" and the poems of the copy-book 
fit in with each other may well be shown by a few 
examples. From the "Glimpses" we learn that 
the title of "Poet Laureate of Hope End" was 
awarded to her "in her sixth year," and that, at 
six, having "mounted Pegasus at four," she 
thought herself "privileged to show off feats of 
horsemanship." Here, then, from the copy-book, 
are the diploma lines leading up to that privilege : — 

Oh! thou! whom Fortune led to stray 
In all the gloom of Vice's way. 
Return poor Man! to Virtue's path. 
The sweetest sweet, on this round Earth; 
Thou slumber of the peaceful mind. 
Be loving, grateful, good, and kind; 
Oh! beauteous Virtue, prythee smile. 
For you the heaviest hours beguile. 

At eight, when she was being dazzled in her 
nursery, at a first acquaintance, by Beattie's 
" Minstrel, " she addressed a Uttle note to her father 
in mingled verse and prose, thus — 

Sweet Parent! dear to me as kind 

Who sowed the very bottom of my mind 
19 



And raised the very inmost of my heart 
To taste the sweets of Nature you impart! 

I hope you will let us drink tea with you and have 
your fiddle to-night — 

Your dear child Elizabeth 

An answer to the Nursery. 

Here Pegasus is harnessed to carry a petition; and 
the verses cannot be called quite disinterested; 
but what a strangely powerful view for a child to 
take of heredity and training! 

Not till she was nine do we find her (in her 
record) taking keen pleasure in weaving the rai- 
ment of verse for the children of her imagination; 
and only two months before her ninth birthday the 
copy-book yields evidence of this enthusiasm, — 
in some lines to Summer and some headed 
"Aurora." 

SUMMER 

All hail most grateful Summer, Goddess hail ! 
Throw back thy yellow hair — throw back thy Veil, 
Which Spring has thrown so lightly o'er thy face; 
Goddess approach — let's see majestic grace. — 
Come near, come tip with gold the varied trees. 
Come wake the World, come wake the gentle breeze 
To joy, to lively Mirth, to tender love; 
The peacock with its tints, the am'rous dove. 

20 



Sometimes by light'ning is the thunder driven, 
To shake the dark celestial Vault of Heaven. 

AURORA 

But hark! Aurora wakes the Cock's shrill crow 

And cooling zephyrs gently blow, 

The lark with quiv'ring wings begins its flight, 

The peacock with its varied feathers dight, 

The playful Fawns around them play 

Whilst linnets hail the fair approach of day . . . 

The next Summer was welcomed beforehand 
with an improved quality in the singing note. 

TO SUMMER 

Fair Summer come — thy breath with perfumes 

sweet 
Scatters the rising odors at our feet, 
Light zephyrs froUc o'er the full drest ground. 
Save the sweet linnet, there is heard no sound. 
The silent cattle graze on yonder hill, 
Or oftentimes they lave within the warbling rill; 
The startling hare, now led by hope or fear. 
Dreams that the speckled hounds are watching 

near. 
And the lambkins with joy, now frolic and play 
And the fawn quickly flies, in the sun's bright ray. 
Then haste thee, sweet summer, I long for thee, 
For thy jocund pleasures, to all are free. 

21 



This is not the occasion for weighing the value 
of her evidence on whatever topic she touches; 
but when all the new material is brought forward 
it will be clear that her memory was much more 
accurate than has been supposed, and that she 
does not make a lax use of definite terms, as has 
been sometimes supposed. Browning's few words 
(in the 1887 notes) concerning his wife's father were 
probably based on information got from her. Al- 
luding to a silly description of Mr. Barrett as a 
gentleman of "semi-tropical taste," the poet re- 
cords that he came from Jamaica, and that "after 
purchasing the estate in Herefordshire, he gave 
himself up assiduously to the usual duties and 
occupations of a country gentleman, — farmed 
largely, was an active magistrate, became for a 
year High Sheriff, . . . and busied himself as a 
Liberal. He had a fine taste for landscape gar- 
dening, planted considerably, loved trees . . . and 
for their sake discontinued keeping deer in the 
park." That this Virgilian preference of the trees 
to the deer probably asserted itself actively after 
1815 may be judged from the presence of the fawns 
in the pretty little scene of the "Aurora" lines and 
again in the second "Summer," for it was the spa- 
cious domain of Hope End that was the back- 
ground of all its little Laureate's nature poetry. 
The landscape gardening, farming, and so on, are 
duly recorded by a poem in the "copy-book" series 

22 



addressed to Mr. Barrett. The continuous tran- 
script of compositions of little Ba aged eight and 
nine ends with two tender heroic quatrains to the 
mother to whom she owed so much and of whom so 
little has up to now been known. There was a lull 
in the child's poetic productiveness after this point 
in the Spring of 1815; but that similar transcripts 
of subsequent poems were added on paper of 
identical manufacture water-marked "1814" is 
certain, although we do not know positively their 
extent — the book to which all alike in all prob- 
ability belonged, having lost its cover and come to 
pieces. Among these there are an address to her 
father on his birthday, in which she takes occasion 
to congratulate him on extensive improvements at 
Hope End, and another set of quatrains about 
some magnificent clock newly erected there. Here 
follows the poem — 

ON PAPA'S BIRTHDAY: MAY 28th, 1815 

Hail dear Papa! I hail thy natal day — 
The Muses speak my hidden thoughts of love; 
That love is more than e'en the Muse can say — 
That love shall reign, until we rise above. 

Sweet Philomel enchants the listening grove[s] 
While Music's warblings twitter in her throat — 
By murmuring streams, mute silence roves. 
Echo scarce dares repeat the Heavenly note. 

23 



'Tis thus these hills declare their bounteous Sire 
As on thy birth, to thee, His gifts they pay, 
Sweet Philomella leads the tuneful choir 
And all is joy to see this happy day. 

On thy fair birth the meadows smile 
How brightly on this day the prospects rise! 
May they all painful care beguile 
And humble Sorrow as it flies 1 

The smile of hope illumes thy soul 
Amid these Vales, where Philomel doth sing. 
Where beauty reigns without control 
Throughout His Works, God's praises ring! 

These polished walls, raised by your tasteful hand, 
These smiling shrubs, these tangled walks and hills, 
These rising rocks, hewn by your active band. 
And drooping flow'rets washed by murmuring rills: 

These waters by your hand are taught to glide. 
And wild ducks strain their soaring wing — 
Far on the limpid wave they ride 
While sweets the gathering zephyrs fling: 

An useful farm now owns thy generous sway 
And oxen fatten fast at thy command — 
A pleasure comes with each untasted day 
Thou reap'st the fruit, and nurstles all thy land. 

24 



Long may'st thou live, as on this happy day 
Amidst thy smihng Httle Family 
And may we, grateful, e'er thy cares repay 
And play about, the shilling gallery! * 

And here is the other piece, of the same month, in 
which the subject of changes at Hope End is 
further enlarged upon. 



ON THE CLOCK PUT UP AT HOPE END— 
MAY, 1815 

Hark what deep tone proceeds from yonder 

Tower, 
For tell-tale Echo's voice betrays the sound; 
A Clock — the Minstrel of the passing hour. 
While breathing Zephyrs gently sport around. — 

New is the note amidst these varied shades. 
Sweet Nature's Songsters startle at the tone. 
Cynthia appears and day's gay habit fades, 
But still the Clock maintains its drowsy moan. — 

Oh! may its Warning never cease to bring 
An useful lesson to our listening ear. 
Whilst hoary Time is swiftly on the wing 
To teach the value of each passing year. — 

* Probably the children's garden, in their own parlance. 
25 



To him who raised in Albion's rugged dime, 
Constantinople's Minarets and dome 
May rich rewards borne on the Wings of Time 
For ever chain him to his lovely home ! — 

The well-known conversion of the common- 
place modern residence at Hope End into a house 
somewhat in the taste of the historic Pavilion at 
Brighton is what the local Poet Laureate celebrates 
in the quatrains about the clock; and the two 
poems, showing careful study of Gray's poetry, 
especially the "Elegy," are pieces justificatives, if 
such were needed, for the statement that a little 
later, "at ten," her "poetry was entirely formed by 
the style of written authors." 

At eleven, according to the "Glimpses," she 
"wished to be considered an authoress;" and so 
earnestly did she go to work on the necessary read- 
ing and self-training, so closely did she profit by 
Mr. McSwiney's classical help, that before she was 
fourteen she was dedicating to her father an epic 
poem in four books with an elaborate Preface 
printed by his orders because, as she told Home, 
Mr. Barrett was bent on spoiling her! 

At twelve, says the young lady of the " Glimpses," 
she "enjoyed a literary life with all its pleasures;" 
and among those were the joys of studying the 
language. History, and Poetry of Greece, with a 
special view to authorship, of writing and revising 

26 



the four books of "The Battle of Marathon" and 
the Preface thereto, and, perhaps, of seeing some 
of the work through the press. But there is noth- 
ing Uke getting contemporary confirmation from 
the outside; and here are some passages from 
a letter which she wrote to her beloved Uncle Sam, 
at the very period, — in November, 1818: 

"... : I have read 'Douglas on the Modern 
Greeks.' I think it a most amusing book. ... I 
have not yet finished 'Bigland on the Character 
and Circumstances of Nations.' An admirable 
work indeed. ... I do not admire 'Mme. de 
Sevigne's letters,' though the French is excellent — 
the idioms beautiful — yet the sentiment is not 
novel, and the rhapsody of the style is so affected, 
so disgusting, so entirely French, that every 
time I open the book it is rather as a task than a 
pleasure — the last Canto of 'Childe Harold' 
(certainly much superior to the others) has de- 
lighted me more than I can express. The descrip- 
tion of the waterfall is the most exquisite piece of 
poetry that I ever read, — 

The Hell of waters where they howl and hiss 
And boil in endless torture — 

'tis really fine, really poetry. All the energy, all 
the sublimity of modern verse is centered in these 
lines — they are models which would not dishonour 
any man to imitate." 

27 



As a child, a girl in her teens, a young woman 
from 20 to 30 years old, and finally as a poet re- 
nowned wherever her tongue is spoken, she was a 
most remarkable correspondent — indeed a master 
of the whole art and craft of letter-writing, and 
that when she was little more than a child, — as 
The Bibliophile Society's own documents could 
readily demonstrate to the members. 

Towards the close of the " Glimpses" her brother 
Edward's departure from the dear companionship 
of his sister for the Charter House school in Lon- 
don is touchingly dwelt upon; and it was probably 
soon after that that she wrote one of the most de- 
lightful and masterly of her letters to her father. 
It may fitly adorn this address. — 

My ever ever dearest Puppy, 

Sam's letter to Mama received yesterday was 
certainly the bearer of a severe disappointment to 
me as it contained the tidings of your being yet 
UNCERTAIN whether to allow me the long antici- 
pated happiness of beholding my beloved Bro, 
Granny, Trip, yourself and sweet Storm or to with- 
hold the delightful boon ! — When I showed you 
Sam's letters in which he declared an intention of 
bringing down his own carriage in order to return 
with me, you did not object, and I fondly believed 
that a kind consent was implied by your silence! 
I am undeceived, and am I actuated by presump- 

28 



tion when I thus come forward to throw myself on 
your mercy? I beUeve I am not, for whilst I 
supphcate a smile I will submit to a disappointing 
frown without a murmur, tho' not perhaps with- 
out a pang! — So thoroughly am I convinced of my 
ever dearest Papa's affection for me, and so per- 
fectly am I aware of the superiority of his judg- 
ment that I would not complain tho' the awful fiat 
were to pass his lips, and yet while my fate is not 
decided I may hope, and I may sollicit [sic] sl 
merciful sentence! — 

You may perhaps exclaim with Apollo, "Magna 
petis Ba" — but you cannot add "Non est mortalis 
quod optas" — Consider my sweet Puppy that by 
ONE smile accompanied by that politest of all 
little words "Yes," you may make me more happy, 
more gratified than all the pomp of Ciceronian 
eloquence can express! — Oh! do not, pray do not, 
refuse! at least do not be angry with me for pressing 
on you a boon which had been so long, so joyfully 
anticipated ! — 

Your grand objection is on account of my sing- 
ing! — ! I promise you most faithfully and on my 
HONOR, that if you allow those features to relax 
into a becoming smile I will practise carefully 
every day in London my "do re fa" which if I 
do, Mrs. Orme thinks will even improve my 
voice! I also promise most faithfully that on my 
return home I will turn all my energies towards 

29 



understanding, and excelling in, both vocal and 
practical music! 

When I promise my sweet Puppy I do not con- 
sider myself slightly bound but under a sacred 
obligation to fulfil it! — 

Thus have I offered every thing in my power in 
order to obtain that fascinating solitary word 
"yes"! I have bid as high as my purse will ad- 
mit! Oh let the kind, the affectionate Auctioneer 
exclaim "Going . . going . . gone!" 

My heart whispers that you will not refuse, that 
you will not turn from me in anger! — My dearest, 
dearest Puppy grant my request! One week in 
London! — Let me not be ac[c]used of presumption 
in thus entreating so urgently for a petition to 
which perhaps you annex no importance! — But 
to me my beloved Puppy it seems worthy to make 
'* worlds CONTEND." — Imagine yourself my age 
once more, how your heart would beat with joy 
at the prospect of an excursion to the metropolis! — 
Have I tormented you? If I have, oh ! forgive me, 
and let the kind verdict be "Guilty but to be 
recom[m]ended to mercy" — 

Your always affectionate 

and fondly attached Child 
Ba 

"The Poets' Enchiridion," an "Address to Uve- 
dale Price on his eightieth Birthday," a very young 

30 



but not infantine "Invocation before Sleeping," 
and a fascinating early draft of the renowned poem 
"Catarina to Camoens" afford samples of poetry 
in different kinds. Work galore in all these classes 
the Council has in store for the members. There 
are, moreover, unpublished poems of the Sidmouth 
period, one of which relates with terrible vividness 
a grotesque dream of 1833 and consists of thirty- 
one quatrains. Another of these, written in 1837, 
is somewhat alUed to the well-known "My Doves," 
but takes the playful form of a Letter from one of 
those birds to a certain Canary, and will keep its 
readers entertained through some three hundred 
lines. Another is a beautiful set of verses (twelve 
quatrains) to the Rev. G. B. Hunter, the father of 
Mary Hunter ("the Little Friend"), and points 
the moral of the fact that, although he had con- 
siderable influence on the poet's mind when she 
was at Sidmouth, his name does not appear in her 
printed books, — in a specially bound copy of 
which, the poem was written before they were sent 
to him from London in 1844. Then there is new 
material connected with, and till now disconnected 
from, the projected classic drama of " Psyche Apo- 
calypte," in an account of which Home published 
one of the schemes of his illustrious coadjutor in 
that project. A prose criticism of October, 1826, 
written at the request of the veteran Uvedale Price 
on examining the proof sheets of a book he was 

31 



about to issue, is of considerable interest, in view 
of the relative ages of author and critic, and the 
great respect and regard the young lady, within a 
few months of her majority, had for the notable 
old gentleman then shortly to be created a baronet 
for his services to the cause of Liberahsm. Then 
there is a considerable mass saved from a long and 
very ambitious poem in heroic couplets, in some 
respects better than those of "An Essay on Mind," 
but evidently less to the taste of her father, whose 
somewhat capricious discouragement of his daugh- 
ter on that occasion gave her pain and grief, and 
almost caused her to destroy a large amount of her 
manuscript. Parts of this ultimately became "The 
Poets' Enchiridion;" and for the consolidation of 
that beautiful poem we are probably indebted to 
the sympathetic literary relations established with 
Uvedale Price in the nick of time. Of the remains 
of the larger work The Bibliophile Society has 
secured six or seven hundred lines. 

A general look-round has also resulted in the 
recovery of a good deal both in verse and in 
prose contributed to periodical literature and well 
worthy of preservation, though thus far ignored 
by Editors. 

Of the manuscripts one section not yet mentioned 
is peculiarly interesting. This consists of trans- 
lations from Greek, Latin, and Italian authors, — 
to-wit, Bion, Horace, Claudian, Dante; and though 

32 



some of these belong to the end of the period cov- 
ered by the " GUmpses," none of them are truly im- 
mature. To Dante, she reverted in the latter part 
of her career — about the time of "Casa Guidi 
Windows," and made at least two manuscripts of 
the First Canto of the Hell, — what seems to be 
the final manuscript being carefully revised, and 
altered here and there. It was probably the ex- 
perience of the difficulty of putting Dante's work 
religiously into Dante's metre {terza rima) that 
decided her not to shackle her freedom with so 
intricate a measure when she composed that 
glorious poem "Casa Guidi Windows," which, 
though written strictly in groups of triple alter- 
nate rhymes is not in terza rima, — pace the shade 
of Swinburne, who when in the flesh described as 
in that metre the noblest of English poems on Ital- 
ian liberty, except — if except — some of those 
which make up his own magnificent collection 
"Songs before Sunrise." It is in that collection, 
in "The Halt before Rome," that he pays his 
touching tribute to the 

"sweet great song that we heard 
Poured upon Tuscany," 

and in noting an error in her estimate of a King's 
oath (confessed in her own Preface), gives us the 



33 



exquisitely appropriate words with which to end 
an address about her — 

"Sea-eagle of English feather, 
A song-bird beautiful-souled!" 



34 



THE POETS' ENCHIRIDION 

ADDRESS TO UVEDALE PRICE 

AN INVOCATION TO SLEEP 

CATARINA TO CAMOENS 



THE POETS' ENCHIRIDION 

My song! mine ancient song! which was to me 
A pleasant hope, is now a memory, 
For memory is the ashes of our hope. 
My silent song! no longer doth it cope 
With my free heart, what time veiled solitude 
Did sit before me in a holy mood 
With brow of worship, preaching silently 
About the mighty things of earth and sky. 
Lo! as St. Dunstan's harp, hung on the wall, 
Ceased not ev'n then its labour musical 
But went on with the same familiar lay 
Its master's touch had lessoned it to play — 
So is my harp . . . my soul; her theme is gone 
Which was her master, but its spell and tone 
And human sympathies and dreams of power 
Cleave to her diapason at this hour! 
So deem I a new song may now be taught: 
It shall be as a voice unto my thought 
Which else were silent: as, against their wills, 
The little valley prisons many rills 
In her green bondage, so my narrow song 
Shall turn into one course the gushings strong 

37 



Of mind and feeling, that they aye may flow, 
(Brightening the pebbles which therein I throw) 
To mirror Heaven above and freshen earth below ! 

Oh ye ! who in your lonely wanderings 
Tune up your spirit's harp with golden strings 
Because the meadows are alive with flowers. 
At gossip with the bees in summer hours; 
Because the spring layeth her votive wreath 
Upon the mountains what time underneath 
The tired Ocean turneth unto sleep 
Breathing and muttering midst his slumbers deep I 
Lay not your harp where rust will fret its strings, 
Dream not your pleasant dreams of passing things. 
Of the green leaves which drop off one by one — 
The honeyed bees which perish with the sun — 
The summer breath which bloweth and is done: 
The colored flowers which have no color long — 
The quaint bird which is silenced in his song — 
The cloudless welkin which the clouds must 

cover — 
And the dumb ocean where the winds sweep over I 

Have / not walked abroad in our fair world 
When every little leaf was fresh unfurled 
To fan the blossoms? Have mine eyes not seen, 
(As we may see thro' tears) the broad sunsheen 
Turning like Midas all it touched to gold : 
Have / not viewed the Ocean's scroll unrolled 

38 



Whereon is written Time, — and the woods round 

Shewing their leafy glories with a sound? 

Yea I I have seen these things! — but aye I 

thought 
That all this pride was out of ruin wrought! 
Behold! the blossoms which today are ours 
Spring from the dust of last year's buried flowers ! 
The grass which seems to cloak our hills in Mirth 
Is but the green shroud of an ancient earth 
Once very green, now dead: — the royal sun 
Shining so blythe on us hath also shone 
On some who unto darkness bent their way! — 
Ay me! Ay me! thus when I fain would stay 
Within this house of Beauty, her lamp lit 
Shews me how Change upon her hearth doth sit 
An unforbidden guest. Thus when I stand 
r the sorrow of man's strength, on this fair land, 
My lips ask 'What is life' with faltering breath 
And all things sensible do answer — Death I 
Therefore I turn from Nature's pleasant dit 
Unto the ear that listeth oft to it 
For whose use it was fashioned — straight I go 
From the majestical and air-hung show 
Of woods and booming waters, mountain, dale. 
The which are God's creations, tho' made frail. 
Unto the breath of God, the deathless soul. 
Who master albeit prisoner of the whole 
Vieweth the grossness of the things that be 
And by the touch of cunningest alchemy 

39 



Maketh their uses spiritual — I find 
Much here for wonder, and I fain would bind 
This theme immortal to my mortal song, 
This frontlet to my brows, and trace the strong 
Desire of some strong soul to cast away 
Th' ^Egyptian bonds, the manacles of clay, 
And follow o'er the deep truth's pillared flame. 
The which desire, when passionate, men name 
By the proud name of Genius, and I would 
Refer it to discernment of the good — 
The good or beautiful — by ancient rule, 
Beauty is good and good is beautiful. 



40 



TO UVEDALE PRICE, ESQ^ 

On his birthday, March 26, 1827 

My words are on my lips uncalled: I turn 
Towards thee, unpermitted — nor inurn 
Within the lonely darkness of mine heart. 
Such feelings as can never thence depart. 
And do inherit sound. It is not fit, 
That I, who have rejoiced o'er pages writ 
By thy soul's lamp, should joy not it was lit: 
/, who with pilgrim feet did erewhile press 
Thy distant paths of leafy secretness, — 
Where Nature welcomes man in Nature's gear, — 
Freed from the tyrant's chain, and bondslave's 

fear — 
Freed by thy generous hand, from which was ta'en 
The zone of painting, to replace the chain! 
Thence grateful, to thy will her actions timing, 
She charms thine hills, and green-grass vales, — 

subliming 
Thy solemn forests' wild divinities — 
Yews, the black mourners for gone centuries, 
Veiling the place in shadow — horrent oaks. 
Braving the Harpy Winds and thunderstrokes 
And blue canicular sulphur — Larches fierce. 
Writhing and grappling with the Earth to pierce 

41 



Her royal sides by roots thrust out aslant! — 
And keeping aye with Heaven proud covenant! — 
Whereby old Solitude, engendered dumb. 
Speaks to the soul by gesture: and doth come, 
She, of the veiled brow, who wont to stay 
r the Poet's soul — as his Egeria — 
Th' Ideal, won by love or forced by spell 
To walk such place in glory visible ! — 
Yea ! and thy spell is vocal to mine ear — * 
And Homer leaves his mouldering sepulchre 
For a new Nestor! Classic Poetry, 
Who hath been forced by cruel Time to be 
A Philomela, marred of her sweet speech — 
Who hath been therewithal enforced to teach, 
With finger gestes, and cunning broideries 
And gorgeous painted forms, only our eyeSy 
And not, as erst, our hearing, with her strain — 
Doth look up at thy voice, and speak again ! 
Yea! thus the shadow of thy time, thine age. 
Like to the statue's shade i' the antique page f 
Seems only shed upon the earth to show 
The beamy treasure which was hid below! 

For me — for me — shall Memory's pleasant flood 
Keep green within my heart a gratitude! 
Because when, erewhile, by mine Harp I sat, 
And faintly gave to sound what thought begat — 

* Mr, Price's Work on Accent. [The author was not 
created a Baronet till 1828.] f Gesta Romanorum 

42 



When uncommunicable fears, that sting 
And hide beneath their wings the festering, — 
Darkened about my spirit — the deep fear 
Lest none should hear the tone ... or some 

SHOULD hear — 
When the tone faltering grew, — the lamp un- 

bright, — 
Thou did'st not still the harp, or quench the light; 
But, patient of my lay, — its harshness borne, — 
Did'st spare the minstrel's fault, — the critic 

scorn ! — 
And therefore it is just, — and so shall be, — 
That all I name mine own, my minstrelsy. 
Convey this all I have to give . . . a prayer! — 
May many gracious years their freshness share 
With thee, — and singing Hope, uncheated, press 
To watch thy golden fruit of Happiness ! 

Farewell ! tho' words were on my lips, my breath 
Had let them perish in a silent death, 
And hid their grave from echo : but I thought 
That howsoever they were rudely wrought. 
Their "truth might be their dower": and thou 

might'st hear 
In kindness what was spoken in a fear! — 
For that, the simple words, I, thus, let fall. 
Are likest harpstrings swept in echoing Hall, — 
Only their trembling makes them musical ! — 

E. B. B. 
43 



BEFORE SLEEPING 

An Invocation 

Grateful Sleep, returning spring 
And o'er my head expand thy wing! 
Angels near my couch attend 
And Guardian Seraphim defend ! 
Ye dreams so grateful to my soul 
Who bid again the ocean roll, 
Who bid again those waters rise 
Renewing pleasure as she flies, 
Oh now around my lonely bed 
Your wings of various colors spread; 
And thou, soft Cynthia, pensive Moon, 
Now shining on thy silver throne. 
Reminding wretched sinners here 
Of virtue and some brighter sphere, 
Now bend from yonder azure deep 
And gild my pillow as I sleep ; 
And ye, oh Muses, heavenly powers. 
Dear solace of my happy hours. 
Even as I sleep my soul beguile 
And cheer my slumbers with a smile. 
Ev'n now, sweet Minstrels, let me hear 
Those sounds which charmed ev'n Pluto's ear 
45 



"With all the soul of harmony" 
When Orpheus sought Eurydice; — 
And don't forget my curls to keep 
In order due when I'm asleep; 
When morning comes then let me wake 
And from my eyelids slumber shake; 
This, great Apollo's daughters, do — 
And I will ever honour you ! 



46 



CATARINA TO CAMOENS 
An Early Draft 

I 
My cheek hath paled its rose away, 

My lips can smile no more. 
And wert thou near me, would'st thou say, 

"I love thee" as before? 
When dull the eyes once dreamed to be 
"The sweetest eyes thou e'er didst see." 

II 
What time I heard that song of thine 

Amid my courtly days — 
Though others praised their starlike shine, 

I joyed not at the praise. 
I only joyed that they should be 
"The sweetest eyes thou e'er didst see." 

Ill 
And well I know, wert thou beside 

Thy Cat'rine's dying bed, 
Though quenched all their light and pride. 

Such words would still be said — 
Her loving eyes still seeme to thee 
The sweetest ones thou e'er didst see. 
47 



IV 

When wilt thou come? When I am gone 
Where all unpassioned are — 

Where e'en thy voice of tender tone 
Will cause no pulse to stir — 

When shroud and stone will hide with me 

The sweetest eyes thou e'er didst see. 

V 

And wilt thou ever, ever keep 

That band which bound mine hair? * 

Clasp it, dear love, but do not weep 
Too long and wildly there; 

For still from Heav'n shall look on thee 

The sweetest eyes thou e'er didst see. 

VI 

But now they are not yet in Heav'n, 

And fill with sudden tears. 
Because thy thoughts may not be given 

To them in after years — 
Then other eyes may seem to thee 
The sweetest ones thou e'er didst see. 

VII 

Ah me! can death so soon begin 
This heart to change and chill, 

* Which she gave to him at their parting. 
48 



That / should weep because I ween 

Thou mayst be happy still? — 
Heaven bless whatever eyes may be 
The sweetest eyes thou e'er shalt see ! 



49 



Mr. Forman's deep interest in, and admiration 
for, Elizabeth Barrett Browning is not of recent 
origin, as will be seen by the following hitherto 
unpublished lines which he has very kindly allowed 
us to print as a fitting conclusion to this little book. 
They are addressed — 

To Laura Buxton Forman, with a Reprint of 
THE 1st Edition of "Aurora Leigh" Edited 
FOR the "Temple Classics" and Received 
FROM the Publisher in Time for her Birthday. 



When first we read "Aurora Leigh" 
We sat on Richmond Green to do it. 

I looked at you and you at me 
When both should have been looking through it. 

II 

"November 8th of '66" — 

We read it from the 5th edition: 
The book lies there, the date to fix, 

And still in excellent condition. 
51 



Ill 

It was because superb I'd found it 
I came to share with you my treasure; 

And that quaint Scot McCulloch bound it 
That you might look on it with pleasure. 

IV 

But 'twas in later calmer years 
We grew to know Aurora better 

For love will find in courtship's fears 
A thousand things the mind to fetter. 

V 

No more we sit on Richmond Green 
Even in the sunniest summer weather. 

No more through gracious meads of Sheen 
We loiter hand in hand together. 

VI 

But while we face the downward slope, 

Aurora Leigh in youth eternal 
Lifts her fair hand in sign of hope 

To those whose lives are quick and vernal. 

VII 

Aurora Leigh and Marian Erie 

Speak truth to all who care to know it, 

And bare for unborn man and girl 
The soul of our great woman-poet. 
52 



VIII 

Aurora's is her mind, her art. 

Her scorn of all that's base and sordid. 

In Marian's peerless mother-heart 
The perfect woman stands recorded. 

IX 

They two shall testify of her 

While still our English speech is spoken, 
And gold and frankincense and myrrh 

The worship of the world betoken. 

X 

The high-tide mark of her clear fame 
We two shall not be here to witness; 

But in some nook I may not name, 
Fulfilling "the Eternal Fitness." 

XI 

We shall be wrapped in that vast night 
Where dawns no sorrow-day or mirth-day. - 

So now I've shaped the text aright; 

And you've the book upon your birthday. 

H. B. F. 
29 January, 1899. 



53 



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